And It Felt Like a Kiss
by Mayfly
Summary: A little kindness is always welcome even if you are evil, unclean, and supposedly empty on the inside. Post Dead Things


Title: And It Felt Like a Kiss  
Author: Mayfly   
Spoilers: Post Dead Things  
  
Disclaimer: Never been Joss, never will be Joss. The   
characters are his, even if he is mean to them at   
times.   
  
A/N: genders swapped in Carole King lyrics to suit the   
story. You'll get the picture. This story was begging   
to be written. Thought DT was one of the more   
disturbing episodes ever, and I felt Spike needed to   
process what happened.  
  
  
  
She hit me and it felt like a kiss  
She hit me and I knew she loved me   
'Cause if she didn't care for me   
I could have never made her mad   
She hit me and I was glad  
---lyrics by Carole King   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
And It Felt Like a Kiss  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Shadows spread out across the darkened streets as Tara   
made her way back to her apartment. Cursing herself   
for nodding off at the Magic Box while studying for a   
sociology midterm, she knew the morning would come far   
too soon. Her clutch stuck as it always did when she   
shifted her Escort into third gear, and a skinny tabby   
cat darted across the roadway in its search for late-  
night adventure.  
  
Sunnydale had turned in for the evening. Nearly   
three-thirty, the last of the Bronze revelers had long   
headed back into the night. Only the demons wandered   
the streets at this hour.  
  
Tara made a left at the blinking stoplight and steered   
toward the cemetery on her way back to her Spartan   
apartment. Humming to the tune on the radio, she   
barely noticed the staggering figure limping his way   
down the sidewalk, his lean frame hidden by a long,   
black coat.  
  
A leather duster.   
  
In an instant she recognized the man. But Spike's   
confident swagger was oddly missing from his stride.   
In fact, aside from the clothing and shock of platinum   
hair, this man barely resembled the vampire she knew.   
His gait was stiff and tentative, his head hung low   
with defeat. She slowed her car to watch him as he   
stopped momentarily and leaned awkwardly against the   
wooden telephone pole before resuming his painfully   
slow journey.  
  
Pulling her Escort over to the side of the road, she   
leaned over, rolled down the passenger side window and   
tried her best to shout out the opening. "Ss-spike?"   
she stammered.  
  
But the man kept walking, not bothering to look back   
as he limped past the car. Maybe she'd been mistaken,   
and it wasn't the vampire. Mustering up the courage   
to call out louder, more confidently, she took a big   
breath and shouted, "Spike!"  
  
Slowly, the man turned, and Tara grimaced when she saw   
the gory evidence of recent abuse heaped upon his   
battered body. Bloodied and bruised, he squinted at   
her. His right eye was nearly swollen shut, a black   
and blue shiner spreading under his pale skin. Sticky   
blood rimmed his nostrils, and his lower lip was split   
open with an angry gash. Whatever he'd faced had   
obviously had the upper hand.  
  
"Innit past your bedtime?" he asked, his tone guarded   
and flat as he resumed his trek down the pavement.   
"Wouldn't want you to be caught with some filthy   
beasty, now would we?"  
  
"Wait," she added, gently pressing on the gas and   
urging her rusty car to follow him. "Are you okay?"  
  
Halting once again, he let out a nervous little laugh   
before answering, "Bloody well been better, that's for   
sure." A cough tore through his body, doubling him   
over with a painful spasm. His eyes screwed tightly   
shut for a minute before he added, "Really, I'm fine.   
Go home, Glinda."  
  
"Get in," she insisted, proud of her new found   
assertiveness. She wasn't going to let him off that   
easy. Teasing the lock and opening the passenger   
door, Tara continued. "Spike, I mean it. Let me take   
you home. You don't look like you'll make it to the   
end of the block."  
  
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he sneered. "But   
really, I'm a big boy. I can take care of m'self, luv.   
It's what we demons do."  
  
"You...y'know," she stuttered. So much for being sure of   
herself. She hated it when he glared at her like   
that. "This testosterone thing - it doesn't work on   
me, remember? Look, I just thought you might need a   
little help. Let's face it, Spike, you're not looking   
too big or bad right now. Just let me do this for   
you, alright?"  
  
The vampire let out an obligatory sigh of concession   
and wordlessly slid into the passenger's seat. Tara   
couldn't miss the they way his head lolled back to   
lean wearily on the headrest or how his hand shook as   
he carefully swiped at the blood under his nose.   
Broken, it was a good word to describe what she saw.  
  
"On second thought," she said, putting the car in gear   
and merging into the main traffic lane, "let's go back   
to my place."  
  
"No," he quickly replied.  
  
Before he could even argue, Tara added, "You wouldn't   
stand a chance if whatever did this to you came back   
for round two."  
  
Staring intently out the passenger window, he   
retorted, "Might be a right, merciful thing. Put me   
out my misery once and for all."  
  
"Spike..." she pleaded, trying her best not to be   
annoyed with his stubbornness.  
  
"Fine," he interrupted with a hiss.  
  
Taking a quick right before driving past campus, Tara   
was a bit surprised that his vocal protests died as   
quickly as they had erupted. His will to fight was   
gone, and his apathy actually frightened her more than   
his physically injuries. She'd have time later to ask   
him about it, but for now, she settled for comfortable   
silence for the remainder of their short journey.  
  
She was happy to find a parking place close to her   
building. Hopping out, she waited for him to pull   
himself to his feet and follow her up the steps. She   
fumbled briefly with her keys before opening the door   
and heading inside.  
  
"It's not much to look at," she explained as she   
flipped the lights on and nervously tucked her long   
hair behind an ear. "But the housing options are   
pretty slim when you move in the middle of a   
semester."  
  
Turning toward the door, she felt her cheeks flush   
with embarrassment when she realized that Spike   
silently stood at the doorway, unable to cross the   
threshold. "Oh, god," she stammered. "I'm so sorry. I   
forgot, Spike!" Taking his hand she quickly drew him   
inside. "Come in."  
  
"One of the few rules I've gotta play by," he   
sheepishly explained.   
  
She set her backpack on the dinette and tossed her   
coat over one of the mismatched plastic chairs   
arranged around its periphery. Afterward, she helped   
Spike slide out of his coat, careful not to stir up   
any new agony from the large bruises riddling his   
body. He stiffened and bit back a groan as he wriggled   
his arms out of the long leather sleeves.  
  
"Let me get a washcloth," she explained before   
vanishing into the darkened hallway.   
  
When she returned, Spike was leaning heavily against   
the kitchen counter and hunting the cupboards for a   
glass. Successful in his search, he filled it from   
the faucet, he took a small sip, swished the water   
around his mouth for a few seconds, than spat a   
mouthful of bloody water into the sink. He repeated   
the process two more times until the backwash was no   
longer a gory shade of red.  
  
After he set his glass on the countertop, Tara pressed   
the dampened washcloth to his nose and gently blotted   
away the crusted blood. "Let's get you cleaned up,"   
she offered. He winced once but never protested,   
letting her continue her careful ministrations.  
  
"Do..." she faltered, unsure if she had a right to ask.   
"Do you think it's broken?"   
  
"Pro'ly," he answered into the washcloth. "Wouldn't   
be the first time."  
  
"Are you still bleeding?" she asked. "I mean, I think   
you're supposed to pinch your nose to stop a   
nosebleed."  
  
Pulling the cloth away, he offered her a small smile   
and limped toward the brown plaid couch in the living   
room. Typical college furniture, second-hand and   
tattered. Slowly he lowered himself into the waiting   
cushions. "Think the worst of the bleeding is over,   
luv," he answered. "But could I have a bit of ice?   
Can't see much out of m'eye."  
  
"Ice," she repeated with a small nod. Did she hear   
correctly? Was Spike actually being polite? "Sure, I   
think I can come up with something that resembles a   
cold pack."  
  
She bumped into the scratched coffee table on her way   
back to the kitchen. Rummaging through the freezer,   
she groaned when she realized the ice-tray was   
completely empty. But she found a bag of frozen peas.   
They'd work fine in a pinch, cold and compact.  
  
Returning to the living room, Tara sat down on the   
coffee table, wrapped the pack of frozen vegetables in   
a clean dishcloth and handed it to the injured   
vampire.  
  
"What's this?" he tried to joke, eyeing the package   
suspiciously. "Some wonky vegetarian version of a   
cold steak?"  
  
"I...I didn't have any ice cubes," she explained handing   
him the impromptu cold pack. "Besides, my mom used to   
use these all the time when one of us got hurt. It   
works the same."  
  
"As long as it's cold," Spike answered as he pressed   
the bag against his right eye and cheekbone and leaned   
back, "I really don't care what it is."  
  
She studied him for several minutes, watching the   
silent ebb and flow of his chest. He certainly didn't   
need to breathe. Perhaps it was habit, something that   
made him feel a bit more human and less of a vampire.   
Maybe she'd ask him about it some day when he was   
feeling better.  
  
Glory had taught her that vampires bled the same   
crimson as humans, and Buffy's death had taught her   
that they also were capable of very tangible emotions,   
including devastating grief. She'd seen that first   
hand as she'd held the keening vampire and had wiped   
away his tears in the wake of the slayer's death.   
He'd looked so utterly lost then. Just as he did now.  
  
"Would an aspirin even help?" she asked, not sure of   
its effects on the undead.  
  
"The way I feel," Spike answered with a sigh, "I'm way   
beyond 'take two and call me in the morning.'"  
  
"Wait, I have an idea," Tara said, her face   
brightening as something came to mind. "I...I could   
make you some tea. You know, some chamomile, arnica,   
stuff like that. They have some pain killing   
qualities."  
  
"That would be lovely," he answered.   
  
"If you'd let me..." she continued, uncertain how   
receptive he would be to her idea. His distrust of   
magick was well known. "I could add a few other   
ingredients that might make it more effective."  
  
Slowly the vampire lifted the pack from his face,   
opened his eyes, and flashed her a suspicious glance.   
"No thanks. I'll pass on the black arts."  
  
"No dark magick. Honest." she insisted. It was one   
area she didn't want to explore anyhow. "Just some   
herbs and maybe a healing spell to hold it together.   
Think of it as a vampire Tylenol."  
  
Pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand,   
Spike answered with a nod, "No funny stuff."  
  
"Scout's honor," she promised with a smile. "It might   
make you a little sleepy. But I promise, nothing   
funny."  
  
It didn't take long for the water to come to a rolling   
boil. Tara carefully wrapped her collection of herbs   
in a thin cloth, and steeped it in the bubbling water,   
softly whispering her incantation of healing comfort.   
The brew slowly darkened to a deep amber hue, and she   
poured a generous amount into a ceramic mug before   
returning to the couch.   
  
"You're too kind," he smiled through his swollen lip.   
Setting the cold pack on the sofa arm, he reached out   
for the steaming mug, firmly clasping it with both   
hands as though seeking its warmth between his palms.   
  
Tara took a seat on the coffee table. Her house, her   
rules. Her father wasn't there to scream at her for   
sitting on the table. "So..." she began, resting her   
elbows on her knees to get just a touch closer to her   
guest. He looked like he needed an ear to bend. "You   
going to tell me what happened?"  
  
He stared at the swirling eddies above the cup for a   
moment, then took a small sip. Spike didn't bother to   
look up when he finally answered. "Not much to say,   
pet. Face versus fist. Fist won."  
  
She let out an annoyed sigh. He knew that's not what   
she meant. They obviously hadn't beaten his   
notoriously stubborn streak out of him. This wasn't   
going to be easy. "I can see that," she countered.   
"I mean, what did this to you? Some demon or other   
messed-up nasty?  
  
"Something like that," he answered, withholding as   
much information as possible while he shifted the mug   
in his hands and took another sip of the tea. He was   
definitely hiding something.  
  
Something about his hands caught her attention   
immediately. They had been bloodied and torn after   
their battle with Glory. His knuckles had been   
shredded when a group of Fyarls had ganged up on him   
last summer. Battle scars, he'd once explained, proud   
of the injuries, a badge of honor. But tonight, his   
hands were untouched, not even a ragged hangnail   
marred his fingers. He hadn't been in a fight. He   
hadn't even raised his hands to protect himself. He   
had let whatever had done this to him attack him,   
brutalize his body, and leave him for dead. He'd been   
a willing recipient.  
  
There was only one person that he would ever yield   
this much power to.  
  
"She did this, didn't she," Tara thought out loud, her   
voice barely above a whisper. An assertion, not a   
question. Bile rose in her throat at the image of her   
friend beating him to a bloody pulp. She was supposed   
to be one of the goody good guys, not an ugly bully.   
"You let Buffy do this to you."  
  
His one good eye widened. Was it guilt or fear?   
Perhaps even a bit of shame flashed across his face.   
"I don't know what you're talking about, luv," he   
denied as he set his mug beside her. He was such a   
hideously poor liar when he was nervous.  
  
"Why?" She didn't know what else to say.   
  
Yes, Buffy was the slayer. She was supposed to kill   
vampires. But Spike was different. The evil façade was   
just that - a thin veneer, an illusion for the outside   
world to believe. He'd done a lot of good, she   
reminded herself. He fought by their side long after   
everyone had expected. She vaguely remembered his   
kindness when her own sanity had been stolen. He'd   
watched over Dawn like an overly-protective big   
brother. He'd loved Buffy with every part of ounce   
unbeating heart. He didn't deserve this. Not even   
dogs deserved this.  
  
His face tightened and a sharp edge of defensiveness   
crept into his voice as he tried his best make a hasty   
exit. "Right, then," he said, "I'm not much in the   
mood for an inquisition. So if you don't mind..."  
  
Tara quickly leapt to her feet and followed him to the   
door. She couldn't let him leave. He wasn't in any   
shape to head home on his own, not after the hornet's   
nest she'd just stirred up.   
  
"Spike, wait!" she called out as she wrapped her arms   
around his waist in an attempt to prevent him from   
leaving. Immediately he bit back an anguished cry that   
reminded her of a wounded animal. "Oh my god," she   
added, releasing him and trying her best to suppress   
the anger bubbling up from within. The slayer had   
inflicted some serious damage. "How many ribs did she   
break?"  
  
"One," he groaned, twisting away from her grasp.   
"Maybe three."  
  
"So it was her."   
  
Spike didn't answer. Rather he closed his eyes and   
hung his head in defeat. His dirty little secret was   
out. With a tiny nod, he whispered, "Yeah."  
  
"Talk to me, Spike," Tara urged. He was one of her   
friends. She wasn't sure when he went from enemy to   
ally. It didn't matter. She might not be able to   
patch him up very well, but she wanted to do something   
to take away his pain. "I want to help."  
  
"Look," he stuttered, pacing the room anxiously,   
cornered, "you know too much as it is. What happened   
is strictly between me and Buffy, and I'd be much   
obliged if you left it that way. Those Scoobies would   
just as soon come after me with a stake for rattling   
her cage. They wouldn't understand."  
  
"Well *I* want to understand, and what's said in this   
room, stays in this room," she promised. "You have my   
word on that. I won't tell them."  
  
He put up no resistance as she lead him back to the   
couch. Not saying a word, she resumed her perch on   
the table and waited. She would have felt better had   
he at least feigned some big bad refusal. Instead he   
gave her something she'd never seen in him -   
hesitation.   
  
If he was going to talk, it was going to be at his   
pace and on his terms. But it seemed like he was   
willing to sit there forever. For several minutes, she   
granted him his wish for silence, but when she grew   
tired of him silently staring at a ragged spot on the   
carpet, she again asked, "Why?"  
  
"My fault, really," his confession began, but he   
wasn't looking for absolution. "Got in her face,   
pushed a bit too far."  
  
"You're always getting in each other's faces," Tara   
tried to reason. He was minimizing the situation, and   
it made her uneasy. "But she's never gone this far   
before. Spike, she could've killed you."   
  
"But," he insisted, "she didn't."  
  
"And that's supposed to make it better?"  
  
"No," he sighed "But it was something she needed to   
do." That defensiveness was back. He was one step   
from bolting again. She'd never seen him so skittish   
before.  
  
She cupped his face, trying her best to get him to   
look her in the eyes. "Why are you defending her?"   
  
"I let her down once," he tried to explain. Guilt, it   
was such an agonizing bedfellow. "I don't want to make   
that same mistake again. It cost Buffy her life last   
time. I don't think I could deal with losing her   
again."   
  
"No," she said shaking her head. How could he still   
feel responsible? "No, it wasn't your fault. You did   
everything you could. We all did. Don't blame   
yourself for her death."  
  
"Not that easy, ducks," he answered, picking nervously   
at a cuticle as he continued. "When she was...gone, I   
saw her every night in my dreams. Came up with bigger   
and better schemes to save her. Was quicker, got to   
her little sis in time, kept Buffy from jumping. I   
saved her every one of those hundred and forty-seven   
nights. But on the one night, the one bloody night   
that it counted, I let her down. Might as well have   
been the one who tossed her off that soddin' platform!  
  
"I had to do something tonight. I wasn't going to   
lose her again. It was either take it out on me - and   
I can handle what she dishes - or take it out on   
herself."  
  
"But, Spike," she replied, "you can't help her at all   
if you're dead. What if she'd been holding a stake?   
She could've killed you."  
  
"You've said that," he interrupted. "Besides, I'm   
already dead, remember?" Damn him and those well-  
honed defenses. That bitter edge crept into every   
word. "You know, evil, unclean, and empty on the   
inside. Who better to take it out on? Sure as hell   
can't have her working out her frustrations on   
somebody with a soul, now could we?"  
  
Her heart ached for him. After everything he'd done   
for Buffy, did he still think so poorly of himself?   
Sure, he wasn't all the way to good, but he was   
working on it. It was a start. "You really don't   
believe that, do you?"  
  
"Why shouldn't I?" he said, running a hand through his   
disheveled hair. "I'm reminded of it every bloody   
day of my unlife. But answer this for me - if I'm   
supposedly so soddin' empty on the inside, why is this   
so hard?"  
  
"Because you're not," she answered, gently placing her   
hand over his heart. The tremble in his hands   
returned, and that chink in his impenetrable armor had   
just grown a bit larger. "Because they're just that -   
words. They're only true if you let them be. You're   
not empty. You're far from empty."   
  
Spike leaned back in the couch to stare at the cracked   
ceiling. "But what if that isn't enough?" he asked.   
  
"I want you to listen to me, Spike," she insisted,   
realizing for the first time how much she sounded like   
her own mother. "Nobody expects it to be enough.   
You've proven that you don't need a soul to love. And   
that counts for a lot. Buffy's been in a dark place   
since she's come back. She may not admit it, but she   
needs your love right now. But don't lose yourself in   
the process. It's not your job to save her."  
  
"Tara," he began, his voice cracking, betraying him   
with every word he spoke, "have you ever loved   
somebody so much that a little part of you dies every   
time they hurt?"  
  
She could feel her own heart begin to ache with his,   
and suddenly she understood why he felt this   
compelling need to protect Buffy. She'd made the same   
sacrifice herself.  
  
"Every day," she answered. "I thought if I could just   
try a little harder, I could keep Willow from slipping   
further over the edge. In...in the end I couldn't save   
her from her cravings. For the longest time I thought   
that it was all my fault."  
  
"Leaving her was one of the hardest things I've ever   
done," she continued. "But now I realize I was   
drowning in the process and would have only pulled her   
under with me.   
  
"If you want to help Buffy, don't drown, Spike. Don't   
let your love for her get in the way. She needs to   
find her own way out of this. You can help show her   
the way, but the journey is hers."  
  
"You make it sound so easy," he replied.   
  
"I never said it would be. But some days will be   
easier than others," she answered, getting up and   
heading to the window to pull the curtains shut. "She   
needs all of us to be there for her.   
  
"She's scared and angry. Can you blame her? She needs   
us to listen and give her space to work through these   
feelings at her own pace. She needs our support,   
Spike. And there will be some days when she isn't   
going to want our help. But her journey, no matter   
how hard, doesn't give her the right to hurt anyone -   
including you."  
  
"But..." he started only to be quickly interrupted.  
  
"But nothing."   
  
She wasn't going to back down on this one regardless   
of whatever compelling excuse he was about to spin.   
"Spike, nothing - not being a demon, not having a   
soul, not even loving her so much you'd do anything   
for her - makes hurting you okay. You're her friend.   
And friends don't do this to each other. I know you   
want to help her, but this isn't the way."   
  
The telephone's shrill chirp echoed on the against the   
cider block walls, ringing three times before Tara   
could reach it. "I better take this," she explained,   
worried that the call announced some sort of middle of   
the night emergency. No one in the right mind would be   
calling her at that hour. Grabbing the receiver, she   
answered, "Hello?   
  
"Buffy...where are you? What's wrong? Will and Dawnie   
are okay? ...Oh, that's a relief. I got worried when   
the phone rang. I figured it was bad news...No, no one   
ever calls this late. That's why I panicked."   
  
Spikes eyes were immediately on hers. The slayer's   
name had quickly gathered his attention. Holding a   
finger up, she silenced the vampire as words were   
about to form on his tongue.  
  
"...N-no, you didn't wake me...Yeah, I was at the Magic   
Box studying...Uh, no, I haven't seen Spike...He's not in   
his crypt?...Maybe he went to Willie's...I'm, sure he's   
safe...I don't know, I just have that feeling...Yes, I   
know he can take care of himself. I'm sure he's   
fine...Sure, I'll do that... You too. G'night."  
  
Replacing the phone in the cradle, Tara put her hand   
up again to halt Spike. He was already on his feet and   
obviously ready leave again. "She's at home," she   
explained. "She's safe."  
  
"Thank god," he interrupted.  
  
"And so are you," she continued. "Let's leave it that   
way for tonight, Spike. Stay. You've been through a   
lot, and what you really need is some rest."  
  
Amazingly, he didn't put up the fight she'd imagined.   
She half-expected him to be rushing out the door,   
black leather swirling behind him, as he rushed to   
Buffy's. Instead, he gave her a slight nod and leaned   
back into the couch.  
  
"It's really late, and the sun'll be up in a few   
hours. You can crash here. I've got a mideterm at   
ten, so feel free to sleep as long as you want. No one   
will be here to wake you up. So why don't you finish   
your tea, and I'll go get you a pillow and some   
blankets."  
  
"Tara," he said, the second time tonight he'd actually   
called her by her name, must have been a record.   
"Thanks."  
  
"You're welcome," she smiled. His eyes spoke of   
gratitude he'd never be able to express. Evil? Hardly.   
He'd left that back about two exits. Turning toward   
the hall, she added before vanishing into the shadows,   
"And Spike?"  
  
Tugging his boots off, he looked up and answered,   
"Yeah, luv?"  
  
"Don't drown." 


End file.
